The Simple Things

Cancer doesn't just limit your physical capabilities, it also hits the mental ones. Unless it's work- or cancer-research related, I don't want to think about anything too complex. With my world so full of new things to learn about my body, my disease, my prognosis, my medications, my mind gravitates toward the simpler things in life. 

It's almost like a return to childhood. Maybe it's the occasional feelings of helplessness and complete dependence, feelings I haven't felt (and worked all those teenage years not to) in a very long time. But I've surrendered to the security blankets, stuffed animals and thumb sucking (figuratively) when necessary.  

My eyes widen at cookies like I'm a five-year-old and I lick my fingers after brownies like one too. I don't even think about calories and how that gooiness will later render itself on my hips anymore. I just think about how delicious they are and eat them. The chemo seems to kill any chance of gaining weight anyway, in fact I keep dropping it (it's my new diet secret, everyone should try it (sarcasm))! Our cousins sent a basket of Mrs. Fields cookies, some even shaped like flowers with smiley faces on them and I was instantly as happy as a clam. An aunt gave me a stuffed turtle and I have it prominently displayed on the TV stand and I play with it and take it with me to treatments and it makes me smile. 

My sister-in-law, a second grade teacher, sent me a laminated book created by her class full of "Poems to Make Me Laugh" and "Pictures to Make Me Smile" and boy did it work. Poems about splitting pants on the playground or Helga's bad hygiene were just what the doctor ordered. And I've always loved children's artwork, but it never struck me so much. I literally started bawling looking at these beautiful, calming pictures they drew of rainbows, space and underwater scenes ... just breathtaking! 

Dumb bathroom humor jokes, courtesy of several joke books people have sent, and TV shows like "Wipeout" where people bounce around and wrench their bodies on ridiculous obstacle courses with challenges like "big balls" and "sucker punch" sliding around in shaving cream and mud wearing neon-colored spandex are HILARIOUS to me. 

When in the Cancer Center waiting room I don't reach for Time or Newsweek, all I want is trashy celeb mags: US Weekly or People, it doesn't matter. These are things I've never read in my life, but they now provide such an escape to such an abstract world of stresses over celeb baby bumps, drunken rampages or bad hair days that it ironically melts away the things that I worry about. If I try to read about important social issues like starving children in Africa or the threat of nuclear attacks in Korea I just cry, literally. I've never been a crier but my emotions are at peak. If I see a baby, I cry. If I see a beautiful tree, I cry. If I see a dead animal on the side of the street, I cry. 

I used to listen almost exclusively to NPR news and other topical talk radio when in the car, now I hop back and forth between hip-hop and country. How can I feel bad about my problems when these people can't be with the one they love so they "kiss them through the phone" or have to "do the Helen Keller and talk with their hips." Country can be even better: Taylor Swift is my new favorite. It's much happier singing along about high school romance and fairy tale princes than deep, haunting lyrics. And then there's the new Dave Matthews CD that I am in love with --- couldn't have come out at a better time: "Funny the way it is if you think about it ..."

Several friends and my sister have burnt me CDs full of feel-good and lashing out songs which I love. A good soundtrack makes any obstacle easier to overcome and singing out loud has been fantastic therapy. But the one that may have taken me most by surprise was the arrival in the mail of the newest Miley Cyrus CD: the soundtrack to the Hannah Montana movie with a note from Vanessa saying that she always thinks of me when she hears "The Climb." I love Miley Cyrus more than ever now and I'm not ashamed ... I'll sing right along with all the tweens out there. So I'll close with the wise (and simple) lyrics of Miss Hannah Montana: 

The struggles I'm facing

The chances I'm taking 

Sometimes might knock me down

But no, I'm not breaking

I may not know it

But these are the moments that 

I'm gonna remember most, yeah

Just gotta keep going   

And I, I got to be strong

Just keep pushing on 

'Cause there's always gonna be another moutain 

I'm always gonna wanna make it move

Always gonna be an uphill battle 

Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose 

Ain't about how fast I get there

Ain't about what's waiting on the other side

It's the climb, yeah! 

What a Difference a Day Makes

As hoped and predicted, Sunday seems to have been the worst of it. Since Sunday's flat-out fatigue things have been much brighter. Yesterday I worked a full work day and got lots accomplished. It felt fantastic to again be a functioning member of society after Sunday's feelings of worthlessness. If it's just one concentrated, bad day during these two week sessions then have at me. I can deal with that. 

I truly believe that being able to anticipate, prepare and control the things that I can has made a world of difference. Plus, the chemo is working. I know it. With less cancerous cells inside me, my body has a better chance to fight. Sucking on those ice chips during my infusion was the best advice Dr. Dailey ever could have given. I can't wait to gush about it to him tomorrow and encourage him to put his recommendation in flashing, neon lights in the Center's chemo living room: "AVOID MOUTH SORES: SUCK ON ICE CHIPS" 

I've also become extremely focused on loading my body with good stuff. I have powered down quite a stockpile of raw, antioxidant rich foods. In one week I've eaten one quart of strawberries, one pint of blueberries, one bunch of bananas, a quart of organic banilla yogurt, one box of granola, one pound of spinach, two cucumbers, a half-pound of baby carrots, a head of broccoli and one of cauliflower, all by myself. Yesterday alone I drank 72 ounces of water, half a pitcher of "meditative mind" iced tea, polished off a container of 100% grape Juicy Juice and two glasses of chocolate soy milk. This is what I call disease-fighting fuel. I've always been a healthy eater but now I'm in max-health mode. But not to worry, there is plenty of ice cream, chocolate and cookies mixed in --- for harmony. I'm reading a lot about energy medicine and the great capabilities oxygen has to fight disease, about exceptional cancer patients and the incredible powers of mind over matter. Must up the oxygen content and reduce the acidity. I want to give my blood the best chance to carry the good cells and dump the bad ones. 

Every day I also make sure to get my blood pumping and my muscles moving. In the morning I do my own version of yoga stretches, elongating my creaky, knotty muscles. Eventually I'd like to learn the actual yoga practice during all of this as I'm sure the physical and mental pieces will do me wonders. But one thing at a time. For now, I twist and contort however it feels good every morning. Sometimes on my porch incorporating the deck railing as my ballet stretching bar. My neighbors probably think I've lost it. But I don't care. I don't want my muscles to shrivel from all of this lack of exercise. 

On the days that I can do it, a walk has tremendous healing powers. Last night Craig, Sammy and I went for a beautiful walk around the neighborhood. The evening was the perfect temperature. The air felt like a crisp, starched sheet wrapped around us and swirled with the smells of barbecue and fresh-cut grass. It was so perfect that even Sammy was taking it in, staying at my snail's pace and not pulling on her leash in the slightest, a miracle in itself.  We noticed so many more things when walking slowly rather than running through the neighborhood: lots of birds, including a blue jay and a goldfinch, newly sold houses, decorating and landscape ideas, the views at the top of the heights, and what our neighbors actually look like. It felt so good to leisurely jaunt with Craig, to feel my muscles warm with use. He didn't care that sometimes I walked with high knees, sometimes I trotted, sometimes I shuffled or skipped, trying to work different muscles and bend different joints. He's never been embarrassed by my at times quirky and uninhibited ways (or at least doesn't let on if he is) and that's what I love most about him. 

Cancer's Subtle Reminders

It's amazing how quickly things can change these days. Despite my "bald is power" mood this morning and the surprising amount of energy I've been feeling since Wednesday's infusion, things have taken a big dip. There's just no predicting how my body is going to feel at any given moment and that may be one of the most frustrating parts of all of this. Yesterday was full of laughs and ice cream with Liz and Lisa and even a trip to Harwinton to see my mother-in-law. Today, getting to the bathroom and back has seemed a rite of passage. 

I woke up feeling queasy and achey but figured it would pass. A visit with an ultra-positive friend and a trip to Brookside Bagels for what else but a bacon, egg and cheese on a cheddar everything bagel proved to be just what the doctor ordered ... at that moment anyway. We were so desperate for the cheddar everything fix that we even waited 15 minutes for a new batch to be baked after being devastated by the site of the empty basket sprinkled with only crumby remnants of cheesy deliciousness. Nicole was a cheddar-everything virgin and we could not let her miss the experience. 

That was like the tip of the roller coaster and the rest of the day was the speedy plummet to cancer crapness.  When I feel like this it's almost like an out-of-body experience. Like my body is just carting around this cancer battle inside of it. Like I'm no longer a person, just a means for which to carry this disease. No matter how much I might want to go for a walk, go pick up a milk, toss the ball with Sammy, it was not happening. I was literally zapped of energy. Sitting up was difficult. It's not a tired like a "I-just-played-tennis-for-an-hour-and-was-volleying-like- a-bad-ass-and-now-I-need-a-nap" tired. It's a bone deep tiredness. It's not just muscles. It's like my tissues and cells are tired, everything down to my neurons, protons and electrons are completely exhausted and crying for rest but there's no sanctum to be found. Even the inside of my ears hurt. 

Itchy, patchy stubles remain on my head and my baldness has morphed from a cute Demi Moore in "G.I. Jane" to more closely resembling Yule Brynner in "King and I." Like Yule I'm "Getting to Know" my new cancer-filled self. I'm too tired to nap, too antsy to stay in one place, but too beat to move. From my bed under a ceiling fan to an anti-gravity lounge chair in the back yard I shifted like a sloth throughout the day carrying books and drinks with me as if I could concentrate on reading anything. What gets me through is knowing that tomorrow can't be any worse than this and that it's only going to get better. At least I have bowel control and mouth tissues in tact for this bout. 

Benefits of Being a Bald Chick

• I'm saving so much bank on shampoo and conditioner
• No need for sticky products like hairspray, mousse, gel for body, gel for flattening, anti-frizz serum, leave-in conditioner, fly-away smoothers or split end treatments 
• My getting-ready time is cut by 80%. Think about it ... not having to do your hair in the morning?
• No more turning around half-way to work to drive back home and double check that I did in fact unplug the hair straightener 
• No more highway hair. I can drive with the windows open without fear of a snarled mess
• No more dealing with salty, sticky, sandy, matted hair at the beach. I can swim without post-dip reservations. And, no worries about highlights turning green in chlorinated pools
• No roots
• No long afternoons at the salon ... ok, maybe I'll miss that a bit 
• No crying after a bad haircut
• No hair-filled dust bunnies flying around the bathroom
• No more sore shoulder muscles from balancing the blow dryer in one arm and round brush in the other 
• No more hair getting sucked into the back-end of the blow dryer filter, or dodging the occasional spark shooting out of it 
• No more dealing with my baby bang flyaways that arose in the most mildly humid weather
• No more bad hair days 
• It's not just my head that is losing hair ... just think of the savings on razors and waxes
• I get to grow my hat and scarf collection and experiment with new looks from African goddess to punk rocker
• No more busted bobby pins, snapped hair elastics or alligator clips with missing teeth 

I've quickly grown to embrace my baldness, my newfound natural rawness. Fussing over updos and frying my hair with straighteners and chemicals is over and now I can concentrate on more important things ... a lesson that I'm sure will serve me well for years to come. Bald ain't so bad. It's kind of growing on me, pun intended.

Chemo Day Two

Yesterday was day two of my chemo treatment: cycle 1, treatment 2 of ABVD. All week prior I made it my mission to inject myself with power foods, walk as much as I could and hydrate, hydrate, hydrate. Lots of antioxidant packed blueberries, strawberries, protein rich natural peanut butter, organic yogurt, granola, and mounds of spinach. The goal being to make my body as ready as it could be for the next chemo whack. 

I felt better knowing what I was going into, yet at the same time, a little more scared than the first time for that exact same reason. This time my treatment was in Avon, which the nurses there deem the "country club." The setting couldn't be more different than the Hartford center, but I really felt comfortable in both places. The quiet here was a little eerie to me, but it also allowed me to spread out, watch a movie on my laptop and get a lot of personal attention from the nurse. Plus, the view outside to the pergola and koi fish pond amid the greenery does beat the busy city streets. However, I did miss the hustle and bustle and variety of people at the Hartford center. But here in Avon, I love that everybody knows you by name and that you get your pick of cushy recliners. Kinda like Cheers, but the bartenders serve chemo instead of brewskis. 

So my mom and I rolled in, passed the blood tests with flying colors, met with Dr. Dailey who had all positive things to say then chose my recliner and IV stand where I would be parking myself for the next five hours of drug drip, drip, drip. This time I came armed with good snacks---banana, carrots, dark chocolate, anti-nausea pops, ginger candy and lots to drink. This time I also sucked on ice chips when it came to the hard-core drugs to hopefully keep them from affecting my mouth and throat and (fingers crossed) avoid those awful mouth sores of last time around. 

My nurse was very sweet but the IV insertion did not go so well. Despite the usual admiration of my veins (I guess I am very gifted

in that department) she had trouble getting it into the vein in my left wrist. 

"Does it hurt?" she was asking. 

"Ya, a little I guess." 

"If it hurts and is not in there perfectly we could seriously damage your vein so you need to tell me." 

"Yikes, okay ya, it hurts pretty bad." I need to stop being such a tough guy. 

So she came at me with the IV needle again. This time in the right arm, right in my inner elbow so I couldn't bend my arm for five hours, but at least it was safe there. 

My mom and I visited with a 75-year-old woman who chose the recliner next to me. She was sweet. She had beat colon cancer and now was back with a relapse, this time metastasis to her kidney. Her attitude was fantastic and you'd never guess that she was in her mid-seventies. We talked about her granddaughter, adopted from Ukraine. She showed us pictures. She told us about how her husband is always forcing her to eat and bought her a hard-top Volkswagen convertible upon her diagnosis. So cute. 

The time passed fairly quickly. We talked. I read. My mom went for a walk outside. I snacked. I watched some of a movie---"Crazy, Sexy Cancer." Warily counting down to the moment when the last drug---the dreaded DTIC would be injected. But my nurse was prepared. She outfitted me with plenty of ice packs to cool my burning vein as the drug entered. It wasn't so bad. She slowed the drip and diluted it with saline fluid to make it bearable. But of course that adds time. Nearly five hours later the beeper went off that the last bag was done. I cheered. My recliner neighbor and I were in a race as to who would finish first. But unfortunately for her, she had to take home a pump that would continue to inject her chemo cocktail for another 46 hours. I guess I don't have it so bad. 

I was a bit loopy and flushed but STARVING. So my mom took me to my fav place: Plan B in Simsbury. I needed food stat so we started with homemade salt and vinegar chips and I finished with a "pink" West Coast burger, complete with fried egg, avocado, and olive tapenade spread. What better way to soak up liters and liters of drugs? 

Then I slept. And slept, with Sammy by my side, as Craig and my mom took care of the housekeeping and cooking dinner. 

So far, so good. I've been nauseous and tired, but I have drugs for the nausea and Tylenol PM to help me sleep through the body aches. And this time I have tried a new, softer laxative to hopefully eliminate any mistakes in the GI arena this time around. At least now I know that the pain is only temporary and can look forward to a few days from now when my body will be recovering once again---hopefully sooner rather than later. 

Just Say No To Hairballs

When Sammy brought over her slobbery tennis ball for me to throw and wrapped around it was a big wad of matted hair---my hair---hanging off it and her pink tongue I knew it was time to end this slow, painful, hair follicle dying process. The fistfuls of hair strands showing up everywhere were just too much to handle, my weak scalp tingling and burning was getting just too painful.

My sister was coming over to hang out so I called her and asked her to bring some hair cutting shears. Yes, I asked my sister who body checks unsuspecting victims on the rugby field to come over with a sharp object to attack my head with. She ripped it out when we were little so why not cut it now? In all seriousness, I wouldn't feel more comfortable with anyone else doing it. 

I was still wavering on what I wanted to do as I was running my hands through what remained of my hair and coming out with more and more strands wrapped around my fingers. Kristen and Craig convinced me that in a situation where I have no control over anything, this was an opportunity to take control. It was falling out no matter what, so why not speed up the process and make it more bearable? "Fine. Let's do it." But I would only do it if they would first cut me a mullet. 

So I cranked up some Dave Matthews and we set up a mock barber station on the back porch. Craig pulled out the extension cord and the buzzers and Kristen got the shears ready. It started with the snip of a ponytail and it it all went down, er, came out from there. Check out the evolution of my spotty, mangly, thinning long hair to my new chic bald 'do --- with some business in front/party in the back and classic braided rat tail action in between. I only wish we had shaved in racing stripes. 

My scalp feels free and my head feels liberated. It's now much more bearable to watch tiny stubbles fall to the pillow as I continue to bald than drowning in a sea of choking, long locks. Bald is beautiful. It'll just taking some getting used to the fact that I'm the one who's bald. And bonus, Craig and I look like twins. They say the longer you're married the more you start to look alike, right?

 

 

Here's To You, Mr. Hodgkin's

Because I've got weddings on the mind, this is a toast. A toast in honor of what I consider to be a pretty significant victory. A "f*@#$ you Mr. Hodgkin's" kind of toast:

Despite your indiscriminate efforts to invade my organs, your sick, twisted ability to grow and morph, multiply and attack my cells sending my lymphacites into crisis mode, I had a beer. I took a road trip. I slept in a cushy hotel bed. Despite your plots to destroy my good cells and corrupt my lymph nodes with your creepy cancerness, I slow danced with my husband. I fast danced with the girls. I celebrated, laughed and smiled as my friends danced their first dance. Looks like you're not so bad ass after all. Just try to break my spirit. You've got a impenetrable fortress of good friends, good vibes and a whole lot of determination to contend with. So this weekend was for you Mr. Hodgkin's ... and it felt good to spite you. 

If you asked me a week ago if I'd make it to Sarah and Adam's wedding my answer wouldn't have been too certain, but we made the trip and it felt amazing. Like three amigos, Melissa, Craig and I piled into the Corolla for the long ride to Rochester, NY to see Craig's childhood friend (who has grown to be a dear friend of mine for as long as I've known Craig ... and that's a long time) say her "I Dos." At the advice of Dr. Dailey, I was cleared (and encouraged) to go, with the orders for many stops along the way to stretch and walk and get my blood flowing. Following doctors orders, we made the trip in six hours each way. I sprawled and napped in the back for the majority of it so for me, it was a breeze! 

The wedding was beautiful. They said their vows in the warm sun by a country club lake. Sitting there watching them beam at each other flooded me with all the memories of our own wedding and how lucky I am to have this amazing man right be my side through all of this. Don't weddings make everyone sappy? 

Most know how much I love an open bar and not being able to take advantage felt a bit foreign, but I made do with Shirley Temples (a forgotten favorite) which in fact are also included in an open bar setting. Who knew? But the doctor told me that I could have the "occasional

 glass of wine or beer." I haven't had a drink in about a month so I figured this would be the time to cash in my one alloted adult beverage. But what would I choose? With much deliberating among the crew of us it was decided that mixed drinks have too many variables and the wine glasses were too small to make my one drink worth it. So beer it was. Ah, but what kind? I opted for something with flavor and girth. Something that I could sip over the next few hours so I wasn't the odd man out without a drink in my hand. I went with Killian's Irish Red and it was glorious. It lasted me through dinner after which I switched to the real hard stuff ... the Shirley Temples, extra cherries. 

I did the YMCA, my newly minted biopsy scar beaming in my underarm. I did the Twist with three hilarious and always-a-good-time ballerinas. I sang the Sandy parts in "Summer Lovin.'" I even bumped to Sir Mix-A-Lot. This baby's still got back. We laughed over prime rib and wedding cake and smiled and hugged with the newlyweds and their fam. 

But I knew my limits. The clock struck 10 p.m. and I felt like I would actually turn into a pumpkin. It was time. My body doesn't give me much room for questioning anymore so we left the dance floor just as the ties were coming undone and the party really getting down. Craig and I said our goodbyes and thanks and retired to the hotel where Tylenol PM and a luscious King sized bed were the perfect remedy to my tired, achy bones. 

I do feel bad for the housekeeping crew left to clean up the wads of hair I left in the bed, in the shower, on the bathroom floor. I did my best to gather it but it's becoming a losing battle. It's now coming out in baby pony tail-sized chunks. I'm afraid they'll think a scalping took place. But I felt pretty that night.

I felt happy. I felt satisfied and proud that no matter what, when there's a dance floor to tear up, passed hors d'oeuvres to demolish and the chance to sway with Craig to mushy love songs involved, you can't keep this girl away. 

Celling Out

Maybe it's just one of my weird neuroses, but I'd often get sunburnt on my scalp, or in the side part of my hair or along the front of my hairline where I didn't put the sunscreen high enough. When it would start to peel I couldn't help but scratch and rub it and watch the dead skin cells flake off like snow tumbling before my eyes. I had a similar experience today, but this time it wasn't burnt epidermis, but my hair itself. 

Since I've started working from home my personal grooming has taken a bit of a dive. With no one to impress but the mailman, I've been wearing my hair in an effortless knot on top of my head. But this morning I was feeling great and I had an appointment for a blood level check at the cancer center. So I decided that I would get all dolled up, actually blow dry and straighten my hair and wear pants that don't have an elastic waist. My goal was for the cancer center staff to not recognize me I looked so good compared to the sweat pant-wearing, makeupless wreck that rolled in last week. 

As I started to do my hair, I realized that all that time it was tied in a floppy pony tail it was slowly becoming detached. I ran my fingers through my hair in front of the bathroom mirror and they would come away wrapped with fistfuls of hair strands. I'd run them through again --- more hair wrapping around my fingers, getting caught in my wedding rings. It was disgusting, but just like picking at a sunburnt scalp, I couldn't stop. I continued to finger comb my hair until the fistfuls subsided to scattered strands. I knew that my hair would likely fall out as a result of the cell-killing chemo, but I don't think anything can fully prepare you for it. The worst part? Two days before my ER visit and the beginning of this adventure I had just gotten a much overdue full highlight and haircut. $130 (before tip, eek) down the drain. Now my beautifully high- and low-lighted hair was escaping my scalp strand by strand. I wonder if I can get a refund? I took this picture today for memory's sake if in case tomorrow I wake up and it's all on my pillow. 

It started with the loss of my nose hair, which I have no objection to. Last week not only did my nose hair disappear but with it went all of the nasal membranes in bloody, tissuey chunks. Now the inside of my nose is like a squeaky clean and smooth cavern. And it seems that my head is on the same path. It's almost like I can feel my scalp releasing the dead hairs. My scalp feels super tingly like I doused it in a deep conditioning foam or slathered it in Nair hair remover. The more it burns and tingles, the more comes out with each finger pass through. I just want to end the itchy, tingly scalp sensations and the site of the hair balls. Gag. 

Despite this thinning-like-a-balding-man experience, I did receive very good news today. My bone marrow biopsy results were negative. That means the Hodgkin's cells have not creeped into my bone marrow!!!! (exclamation points justified today). This is great news. Dr. Dailey is still keeping me at a Stage 4b Hodgkin's Lymphoma patient, but we rejoiced together in the fact that it's much better to be Stage 4b minus bone marrow involvement. 

Not good news, but not unexpected news, my white blood cell count took a big dip. We track my blood activity now like some people track the New York Stock Exchange. I've actually started a blood cell portfolio. One week ago my White Blood Cell Count was 10.0, today it is 1.8 (normal is 4.1-10.9); my Granulocytes were 8.8 one week ago; today, barely existent at 0.3 (normal 2.0-7.8). If I was scheduled for a chemo infusion today they would not be able to treat me as my body would not be strong enough to handle the drugs. 

Now I understand why Dr. Dailey did not want me working in the hospital setting ... my body is inherently defenseless at this point. In steps Neupogen, white cell booster shots that will get me back to fighting strength. I got one shot in the arm today and have to go back in for two more doses tomorrow and Friday. Like Barry Bonds preparing for a big game, I'm taking in injections to pump up my body for next week's chemo attack. I'll take the shots and bathe myself in Purell until Friday's finger prick when hopefully my body is back in the disease fighting game. Ka Pow! 

Body Conscious

I guess it's really true that you don't realize what you've got 'till it's gone. Now I realize how good I had it as far as health goes. I never looked at a hill and thought, "I can't make it up that." I never thought twice about hopping on my bike and riding 25 miles along the greenway. I never got winded walking up stairs. In fact, I'd usually hop two at a time and always opted for the stairs vs. the elevator, whatever was the fastest route. I'd always plow past old people and pregnant women hobbling along in the grocery store frustrated that they couldn't just pick up the pace. I could get the six blocks from my work parking lot to my office lugging a laptop and projector skating over icy sidewalks in less than 7 minutes at my mean walking speed. 

Besides a severe case of pre-teen acne and all the orthodontic accoutrements that come with buck teeth (including the dreaded night gear) I was always a healthy kid. No peanut allergies, no asthma, no weird fears or disorders. I danced. I played sports. I never hit a physical challenge. I've never broken a bone in my life besides a pinky when someone sat on it in second grade and two fingers jammed in high school volleyball. I've had one overnight hospital stay for a quick ovarian cyst draining and was up and at 'em right after. 

Just a month ago I was a 26-year-old at the peak of physical health. Blood pressure perfect. Immune system like a horse (does that make sense?). At the gym at 5 a.m. before work. Running with Sammy. Hiking, biking, playing ball, boogie boarding, whatever. I never thought about my body because it just did whatever I wanted it to do without any complaints. Until now, my only physical limitation was the inability to go underwater without holding my nose like a four-year-old. Mild I know, but no less embarrassing at pool parties and on boat outings.

Now? Walking up the 12 stairs from the living room to my bedroom is like a Family Double Dare physical challenge. Carrying down a laundry basket? I thought I gave myself a hernia yesterday. Working for a nonprofit I would lug bins upon bins full of Arts Council schwag, giveaways, heavy, glossy brochures and magazines, 10-foot banners and metal banner stands and poles without questions. I'd maneuver a stacked hand cart with one arm and an armful of boxes in another down the streets of Hartford from presentation to presentation without breaking a sweat. Okay, I sweat, but those red shirts did not breathe! Lately, carrying the five pieces of mail from the post box up the driveway is daunting. I can't stand for more than 10 minutes without having to rest my loins. I haven't been able to feel the bottom half of my left leg for two months now. All the sensation is gone. I guess that's just what happens when you have swollen cancer masses filling your chest, pressing on your organs and squeezing your veins thin. 

When I am better I will never again take for granted how lucky I am and how amazing the human body is. And next time I see an old lady pushing her cart in the grocery store I'll politely wait for her to turn down the aisle before ramming past her. I've never had a greater understanding of what it means to truly have your body, no longer your mind, in control.  

No matter how good I feel otherwise and how much faster I want to move I just can't do it. It's like that time when we ran out of gas on I-84 in a snow squall with a Christmas tree tied to the roof of the Blazer. No matter how hard Craig pressed that gas pedal there just wasn't nothing left. Putt ... putt ... putt to the shoulder. 

Constant Companion

I always knew that I wanted a dog but never knew how much I needed a dog. Our 55-pound yellow bundle of lab energy has done more for me than painkillers or anti-nausea drugs ever could during all of this and I know that her gentle nuzzle and wet kisses will be healing me all the way through. 

The timing could not have been more right for Craig to finally cave to my whinings for a dog, and it's truly kismet that we found Sammy, a beautiful pup stuck in a crummy situation hundreds of miles away in Tennessee. She's only a year-and-a-half and we're her third family. From abandonment at a kill shelter to being scooped up by a loving family with the unfortunate luck of a son allergic to her and therefore many days and nights spent alone in a garage, to a

n impulsive adoption by a crazy couple in Connecticut (us.) We've had her only three months and can't imagine our life without her. Sammy has my husband, Mr. Anti-Dog, wrapped around her paw and they are truly the best of friends. 

For me, her companionship has meant that I never have to be alone. I get constant love and friendship. I don't have to talk about how I'm feeling or explain why I doubled over or 

can't get off the couch. She just knows and nuzzles up next to me wherever I am. She'll nap with me for hours; she'll sit by my feet outside in the warm sun; she'll wait patiently for me to get my shoes on to take her outside to play. When I'm working on my laptop she shimmies her way under my arm and rests her head on my leg while I type and design. Right now it's 3:45 a.m. and where's Sammy? Not in her dog bed but downstairs with me cozied right by my side (you can see her snout under my arm in the photo.) She's up with me all hours of the night checking in to make sure I'm okay in whatever bathroom I might be in, nosing her way through the door, following closely at my feet as I shuffle like an elderly woman around the house. 

And the most important thing she does for me is gives me purpose and forces me not to mope. Cancer or no cancer Sammy still has to eat, go out, she still craves a good session of tennis ball toss and a belly scratch. She doesn't ask for much and I couldn't be happier to please her. A million ear scratches, pig ears and organic doggie treats could never pay her back for the way she warms my spirit and makes me forget the pain. 

I had come across this New York Times column several weeks back, before I had any clue about the cancer growing inside me. It struck me so deeply that I started bawling and forwarded it to Craig at work. Maybe deep down I knew that me and Sammy would also be learning to live in the moment together just like the author and his Bijou de Minuit.    

A Beautiful Day for a Flogging

For those of you who are just in this for the prose and might be a little weak-stomached you may want to stop reading now (a lot of potty talk to come.) For those who want to know what really happens when chemo is coursing through your body here's the raw, uncut version. 

Basically, I feel like I went five rounds with Ivan Drago, you know the Russian boxing machine from Rocky IV with a punch so powerful he was able to take down Apollo with a fatal blow? Ya, that guy has been punching me in the gut, back, jaw, head for a few days straight now. Or maybe it feels like flogging. Thankfully, I've never been flogged, but I feel like this is how your body would feel after a flogging. The good news is that this means the chemo is working. It's fighting a sick battle in my body and unfortunately the Hodgkins is still real strong at this point and fighting back real hard. I get to reap the benefits of this internal battle of good vs. bad cells vying for eternal domination of my being.

Today is much improved actually. I'm getting conditioned to Drago. But Monday and Tuesday?Terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad days. The mouth sores only got worse to the point where I couldn't eat or drink anything without being in incredible pain. It's sore from my gums down into my esophagus as the chemo eats away at the fragile tissue. Then what I could eat never came out the other end. I'd been walking around with a bowling ball in my belly for three days. Hurt to sit up, hurt to sit down. Basically I was FOS as they call it (full of shit).  So I prayed for a brick. Be careful what you wish for. 

One laxative too many and last night was a nightmare. I woke up from my Tylenol PM coma the first time to a now customary drenching night sweat and an explosive call to the latrine. I continued that cycle about every hour on the hour all night long. Sammy following me to the bathroom every time. We tried out all three bathrooms in the house to switch it up. I had strategically placed reading material in each so as to have a different novel going depending on which toilette I would like to explore. Though most times it was whichever was closest. I guess I got what I was asking for, but I was hoping for more of a happy medium. I got all or nothing. 

Felt a little better this morning. Was able to muster a smashed banana and scrambled eggs with cheese (this has become my diet mainstay). I was still very achey, woozey and tired from no sleep so my mom came with me to the oncologist's for today's check up. My blood work was okay but I am dipping further into anemia so need to be conscious of getting more iron into my system. White blood cell counts are good. Basically Dr. Dailey told me that all the symptoms I'd described --- fatigue, aches, chest pain, chills, mild fevers, mouth stores, constipation, diarrhea, skin discoloration are all to be expected, which oddly made my mom and I feel a whole lot better. Going through this it's hard to know what your body is "supposed" to be doing and what could be signs that the system is breaking down. It's really an odd construct when you think about it. I need to poison my body in order to get better and everything that has a good side effect also comes with a bad one. The pre-chemo anti-nausea drugs have kept me from vomiting, but they're also what bound me up. The A in ABVD is working to kill the cancer cells but also causes severe back pain. It's give and take I guess. 

We left the cancer center feeling positive, albeit I could feel something brewing inside. We had to stop at CVS to pick up a couple of things, including a phone (finally investing in a land line since I'm sick of important doctor and work calls getting dropped) and a toothbrush soft enough for my mangled baby gums. We're in the toothbrush aisle and I could feel the wave. 

"Mom, I've gotta find a bathroom." 

"I don't think there is one." 

"I gotta go. Drop the toothbrush. DROP THE TOOTHBRUSH!" 

I frantically glance around CVS, no immediate signs of a restroom or even an employee to ask. No time to waste. Must find bathroom. So I book it out of there. My mom chucks the toothbrush in another aisle and out the door we go. Mind you, I haven't moved faster than a snail's pace in over a week but I was hauling to the coffee shop next door driven by the hot, scary feeling of impending bowel doom. 

I plow into the door of the ladies room to a cheery, "Just a second!" God damn it. I don't have a second. Breathe. I can hear the lady washing her hands, not a care in the world and then running the hand dryer until every last droplet was gone. Really? Reaaallllyyyy? Finally the handle turned and I was saved. I cannot speak about what happened in there, but let's just say that was a close call. 

My mom, the angel that she is, walks me back to the car and goes into CVS to pick up my goods. I find the one position that is comfortable, legs hanging out the window, curled in a reverse fetal position breathing through the s-pains until she comes back out. My house is only 10 minutes from this CVS but of course today, of all days, there is major construction on Hopmeadow Street, traffic stopped to a dead halt as they let through only one lane at a time. I'm sitting there with the cold sweats and s-pains like I've never had before longing for my own bathroom. 

"Karin, calm down," says my mom. "At least it's not like you've gotta take a shit or something." We laughed as we watched the asphalt truck pour a dumpy, black substance from a long metal spout onto the steamy street. Ah, symbolism. You can't make this stuff up.  

Beaten But Not Broken

I guess I was bound to hit a shitty day along the way. I was a little pompous over the weekend, inflated by steroids and decadron. Today, without them, I felt like I got hit with a truck driven by a truck driver that made no attempt at braking. Forward, backward and forward again. 

In short, my body is extremely achey, especially my back. I've been woozy, seeing stars, eyes burning and very uneasy. I was able to get some work done this morning which I was proud of but by the time of my bone marrow biopsy appointment I was like a wilted balloon. Food no longer tastes or smells the same and my mouth is beginning to feel very raw and sores are developing as the chemo attacks those soft tissues. Juice, tea, ginger ale all feel like a flaming Sambuca shot going down. But I have to drink lots of fluids at the risk of a developing UTI. What a conundrum. A special "for oncology patients only" mouthwash helps a bit to calm the throbbing tissue but I hope this is a temporary sensation. 

My mom and sister took me to the Helen & Harry Gray Cancer Center at HH for the bone marrow biopsy. Shaky, flush and uneasy I stumbled into the center on their arms and careful watch. They took blood, a lot of it, and usually it doesn't bother me but today ... I was going down. The fellow who would be doing my biopsy was explaining the procedure and all I saw was stars. I had to interrupt her with a "uh, I'm feeling pretty woooooozy" as they jumped to lay me on the exam table. 

Helen, my favorite oncology nurse, came in with an IV of Adivan to ease my nerves and the doc began the biopsy procedure. Long needles jammed into my rump to numb up the area felt just fantastic (oozing sarcasm). The numbing took longer than she had expected and she had to go back in a few times with more Novocain as the pain was much stronger than the "pressure" I was supposed to be feeling. The goal was to extract some bone marrow with a needle aspiration. That part went fairly smoothly. It was the piece of my hip bone that they needed to extract that wasn't so straightforward. 

She had an awful time breaking off a chip. "Do you work out? You have such strong bones," she kept saying. "It's so much easier with elderly people ... they're so much more frail." 

In my head: "well I'm not frail, and jamming into my hip bone with this knife is hurting like a son of a bitch." Out loud: "ya, I guess I do have strong bones." cursing myself for loving milk, those calcium supplements and hard workouts. 

The pain subsided but I could feel the pressure and hear the sound of her chipping away at my hip. Then I hear the conversation between her and the pathologist. The sample was crap. Great. "Sorry, we've got to go back in again." More jabs, cracks and pulls and they finally got a little grain-of-rice size piece of bone for examination. 

On the way home all I wanted was a Happy Meal from the golden arches. I haven't had fast food in over three years but I needed comfort fast so Mom pulled in for me. It was delicious and I even got a purple squid toy. 

Loopy and confused coming down from the Adavan, the ride home was a blur but I woke up on the couch to my mom and sister who had cleaned the kitchen, made the beds, watered my plants and had supper going .... ahhhhh, content. Then Craig came home and the four of us ate a dinner that went down without too much mouth pain and he helped me to try out the new mouth rinse Dr. Dailey prescribed to soothe my raw gums. 

Dr. Dailey said that there would be bad days and this would be expected. The only thing that makes it easier is that I got through this one and have every hope that tomorrow will be a better one.